


Kirkwall, the City of Ruins

by whereismywarden (PearOh)



Series: Dragon Age - Champion Violetta Hawke - Homecoming Worldstate [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: After Kirkwall Zine, Closure, Family Feels, Gen, Goodbyes, Kirkwall, Light Angst, Mages (Dragon Age), Templar Carver Hawke, Templars (Dragon Age)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-03
Updated: 2019-09-03
Packaged: 2020-10-06 08:08:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,634
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20503661
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PearOh/pseuds/whereismywarden
Summary: Standing over the ruins of Kirkwall's Chantry, Carver Hawke is finally at peace with himself.





	Kirkwall, the City of Ruins

**Author's Note:**

> My piece for the _After Kirkwall_ zine!  
Thank you @laugan-art for putting this project together and for all your hard work. I am infinitely grateful to have been a part of this amongst so many talented artists and writers.

There is a giant hole in Hightown where the Chantry once stood. The entire neighbourhood is black with lasting scorch marks. Ashes are still drifting through the wind like dark snowflakes, carrying with them the sins of humankind. People say the place is haunted. They say the ghost of Grand Cleric Elthina roams the ground at night to exact revenge on the unrighteous, and that's why the templars need to keep a close watch over this blasted place. It's a load of crap, Carver knows this. He and the other soldiers have been stationed here to stop civilians from getting too close to the ruins, that much is true, but only because they want to prevent people from falling into the deep dark pit. 

Yet, something about this place feels wrong to him, unnerving. It's too cold, too silent in spite of the small crowd of faithful who still gather in front of the shattered stairs to offer tears and prayers. Shaking his shoulders to regain his composure, Carver reminds himself that this is still a better position than guarding the Gallows and Meredith's grotesque remains. The thought alone makes him shudder. 

The Gallows… Now  _ that _ is what a haunted place looks like. The Veil has grown so thin over there that the templars have to fend off demons almost every week. It once housed hundreds of mages: men, women, children… Some managed to escape thanks to the Champion’s intervention. Most, however, did not. And it is now the templars’ duty to remove their twisted corpses from the ancient prison, a long and gruesome task that many find unbearable. Guilt tears at their conscience. It sits in the pit of their stomachs like bad seafood, going so far as to make some of them physically ill.  _ As it should_, Carver thinks. It's the ones who don't shudder at the sight of dead children that terrify him the most. 

Some of the men have taken to drinking as a way to muddle their thoughts while others prefer ingesting a higher dose of lyrium. The damn thing helps, there’s no denying that. It calms your nerves and takes away your fears. Carver, on the other hand, has grown disgusted with the shimmering liquid. It doesn’t matter how effective it can be, it also eats away at your brain like a little rat until there’s barely anything left of you. Unfortunately, like all who have taken their vows, he has become severely addicted to the stuff. 

Only a few months ago did he make the decision to take as little of it as he could muster. Just enough to keep himself on his feet. Resisting the temptation has proven to be difficult — and downright painful at times — especially when boredom strikes him. And Hightown is certainly the most boring watch in Kirkwall. Clearing rubble out of the city kept him busy enough for a while, but as the reconstruction progressed, the need for unskilled labour decreased. 

Carver finds himself wishing he had his helmet with him. He could have put it on and closed his eyes for a bit. There are enough templars on watch duty that a quick nap might remain unnoticed. Unfortunately, Knight-Captain Cullen has ordered his men not to wear them anymore. “We need to show the people of this city that they can trust us,” he said. “We need to show them we're not monsters underneath that armour.” Not a bad idea, in and of itself, but try telling that to the mages who have suffered years of abuses at the hands of these very same “not monsters.” Carver feels sick remembering how bad things had gotten in the Circle by the time Anders destroyed the Chantry.

Spotting sudden movements from the corner of his eye, Carver’s hand twitches, ready to draw his blade at the first sign of trouble. He relaxes when he catches sight of a little girl slowly walking up towards him. She can’t be more than twelve, he thinks. Her clothes and face are dirty, covered in soot, which is not an unusual sight in Hightown lately. Frowning, Carver scans the crowd for her parents or anyone else who may be responsible for her. No one is paying attention to them or even seems to care about a child wandering around the city without supervision.  _ Welcome to bloody Kirkwall. _

Turning his attention back to her, Carver watches her approach him with mild curiosity. She reminds him of Bethany, in a way, with her black ponytail swaying behind her as she walks. She stops a few feet in front of him, keeping herself at a safe distance, far enough to be able to run before he could grab her, but close enough that he can finally recognize her. She used to be one of the apprentices in the Gallows, brought to the Circle only a few months before the explosion. 

Carver throws a quick glance in the other templars’ direction, trying to find out if any of them remember her. Either they don't, or they couldn't care less anymore. Carver swallows hard. Did she escape the bloodshed on her own? How many more children weren't as lucky?

He can still remember that night vividly. The explosion, the chaos, Knight-Commander Meredith's murderous rampage, his sister's selfless heroism… 

They all watched the sun rise over Kirkwall the morning after. The view from Sundermount had always been the most breathtaking: giant chains hanging over the harbour like a necklace above a woman's breasts — as Isabela so elegantly put it; majestic statues glistening under the sun, looking like titans from another time; and the Chantry standing high above the city, proud and majestic… Until that night.

A dark cloud now lingered over the city, giving it a sinister look. Fire still burned in some places as if the stars had fallen from the sky overnight. The bronze giants, frozen in stone for all eternity, seemed to weep for the dead. It was then, as their little group watched the empty space in the landscape, that the consequences of their actions dawned on them, and on Letta most of all.

His sister stood on her own, her eyes cast on the horizon, although Carver doubted she was watching anything specific. He had seen that look of emptiness on her face before, during the Blight, when they had fled Lothering to find refuge in Kirkwall. It was the look of a woman lost. A woman who thought she had failed to protect her people.

He walked up to her. “It's not your fault, you know. You did all you could.” It was a trite thing to say, he knew that, but it was what his sister needed to hear. What she had always needed to hear, but he had been too stubborn to see it.

A shadow of a smile tugged at the corner of her lips. “I know,” she sighed as she turned around to face him, almost as if the words had lifted a weight off her shoulders, “but it means a lot to hear it from you, Carver. Thank you.”

He didn't know what to say next. He wanted to comfort her, tell her that, in time, everything would be all right. But he couldn't find the right words for it. He had never been good at dealing with grief himself, always bottling everything up until it became unbearable. So he stood there awkwardly, hoping that his presence would be enough to soothe his sister's sorrow.

“You don't have to go back,” Letta said eventually, her voice no more than a whisper. “You could come with us.”

Carver smiled sadly. Of course, she didn’t want to leave him behind. “I know,” he told her. “But we’ve made a mess back there. Someone has to clean it.”

Her face scrunched up into a grimace. “It’s the templars’ mess,” she hissed. “Let them take care of it.”

The laughter coming from his mouth was sudden and loud. It was a sound neither of them had heard in years, a sound that prompted curious glances from their companions. Carver gestured towards his chest plate where the Sword of Mercy was engraved and said, “My point exactly.”

She laughed with him, a nervous chuckle more than anything born of actual joy, before settling into a comfortable silence. The sun was now hanging low on the horizon, casting dark, threatening shadows over the city.

“I didn't become a templar out of spite, you know,” Carver told her. “I genuinely wanted to help people. And after what happened last night…” He sighed, his voice trailing off. “There are going to be hundreds in need of a helping hand. This is what I want to do, this is where I need to be.”

“I understand.” Her smile never quite reached her eyes, but he knew it came from a place deep within her heart. “Carver, before we go…” There was a tremor in her voice as she spoke. “I wanted you to know, in spite of everything, I'm proud of you. I'm proud of the man you've become and I know Mother and Father — and even Bethany — would be too.” She took a deep breath, as if she were gathering her thoughts. “I just don't like the idea of you being all alone out there.”

He tried to put on a reassuring face. “I won't be alone. Aveline will be there, no doubt leading the recovery efforts,” he said, reaching for her shoulder. “And Varric. Maker knows you would need chains to drag him out of this blasted city.”

Letta had always worried too much. Ever since they were young children running along the Drakon river on the outskirts of Lothering. _Don’t run too close to the water, it’s dangerous!_ _Don’t go too fast, you might get hurt!_

“I'm the one who should be concerned for you,” he continued. “You’ll be sailing off into the unknown with Isabela, causing all kinds of mischief.”

“I'll do my best not to burn down another city, I promise.”

Carver snorted. “Why doesn’t that make me feel any better?”

She pulled him into a sudden hug, wrapping her arms around him as tightly as she could, as if trying to make up for lost time. He held onto her with the same reluctance to let go.

She started shaking, her face buried in the crook of his neck. “Are you crying?” he asked her, almost teasingly.

“What? No! I'm just cold!” She pouted and pushed him away playfully.

She wiped her wet cheeks with the palm of her hand. Her eyes were lined with red and shining with regret. “Shut up,” she mumbled without venom.

His own eyes were burning with something raw Carver had not felt since their mother's passing. His throat tightened into a knot. It was strange, how much he missed Letta already. They hadn’t spoken much in the past six years and yet, he had felt her closeness, had felt her shadow loom over him all the way to the Gallows. He had hated it at the time, but now, more than anything else in his life, he regretted never reaching out to her.

He hugged her one more time, knowing it might be years before they saw each other again. “I may not have always shown it, but I care about you and I… I'm sorry I’ve been a terrible brother to you lately.”

“It’s all right, I forgive you. I haven't exactly been the perfect sister either.”

He tightened his embrace, finally letting a tear run down his cheek after seven years of repressed grief.

“Wherever the winds take you, I'll always be here for you, Letta. No matter what.”

“And I for you, little brother.”

Upon his return to Kirkwall, Carver was met with a mix of surprise and contempt from his fellow brothers and sisters in the order. As it turned out, a lot of them blamed the Champion for the way things had escalated during the uprising. But few were those who dared voice that opinion in front of him. Still, there have been days in the months that followed when he almost regretted not leaving this blasted city behind. 

“Is your name really Hawke?” the little girl asks him, pulling him out of his reverie. “Like the Champion?”

He blinks, taken aback by her question. He’s always thought his connection to Letta common knowledge amongst the Circle's residents. But perhaps the younger apprentices weren't as well informed as the others. “That’s my sister,” he tells the girl, his tone warm and soft.

Her brows tighten into a deep frown, like she doesn't quite believe the mighty Champion of Kirkwall could have a templar brother. Carver doesn't blame her. There was a time, not so long ago, when he would have denied even knowing the woman. But that’s all in the past now. The man who fought with his sibling at every turn has been worn out by years of service in Kirkwall's Circle. A new Carver has replaced him, tired and beaten, but less bitter and much more at peace with himself.

The girl takes a small, tentative step towards him. “I made this for her,” she says, extending her arm to give him a folded piece of vellum. “Could you give it to her?”

Kneeling down to be on the child's level, Carver offers her a reassuring smile. “I'll give it to her the second I see her again,” he promises.

Maker only knows when that will be. Carver doubts he'll see Letta again any time soon. Not before this whole mess is sorted out anyway. He doesn't tell the girl, though. There's no point in squashing her hopes and dreams. If only he knew where his sister was travelling these days, he could have sent a raven to her.  _ Varric probably knows,  _ he muses, _ if I can find him. _

The hug takes him by surprise. “Thank you, Ser!” 

Carver hesitates for a moment before lightly patting the child on the shoulder. A lot of people have grown to distrust the templars after the chaos Meredith unleashed over the city. But there is something comforting in that girl's softness, something telling him everything will be all right in the end. Perhaps he still is in a position to do right by these people.

As the little girl takes a few steps away from him, Carver’s curiosity takes the better of him. He slowly unfolds the letter, careful not to tear it with his gloved hands. It's a rough drawing of a woman — very obviously Letta — riding a giant beast. A dragon, judging by the reddish pigments she used to colour it. A broad smile spreads across Carver’s lips. His sister is going to love it. 

“Hey, kid!” he calls out before she can disappear into the crowd. “Do you have somewhere safe to stay at night? I know a place in Lowtown where you'll be warm and fed.”

The girl hesitates for a moment. It's one thing to trust a templar to deliver a letter, but trusting him with her life is a whole other matter. She sizes him up and down. Carver can feel her grey eyes boring into him, judging his worth. He hasn't felt this apprehensive since Meredith discovered he was hiding the existence of his mage sibling. 

Her decision made, the girl gives him a firm nod and walks back to his side. “You’d better not be sending me into a trap or else!” She scowls, wagging her finger at him the way Bethany used to do when he misbehaved.  _ I'll tell mother you're the one who ate all the cookies! _ she would warn him whenever she tired of his shenanigans.

Carver chuckles lightly. Maybe staying in Kirkwall isn’t going to be such a waste of time after all.


End file.
